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Rumor says Ferran is a play boy.
He’s always seen with a new person on his arm, a new pretty girl, a handsome young man… almost never alone.
The fact that he’s not alone doesn’t stop him from winking at Pedri though, or from annoying him. Pedri, who rolls his eyes at his antics, swatting his hands away anytime he tries to go for a hug.
He refuses to enable him in his little games. Pedri is almost sure the man has slept at least once with every member of their team, except him of course, which made him interested in him from the first place. The one untouched thread in a tapestry Ferran has already pulled apart.
“You look grumpy today.” Ferran says as he reaches him, his voice honeyed and teasing, an arm sliding around his shoulders and Pedri is too tired so he humours him.
“And you look annoying, as you always do.”
Ferran doesn’t know when to stop. Always up Pedri’s business, always bothering him, pulling him, tugging at his sleeve, draping himself over his back after a match, crowding into his space like he owns it. He’s always met with rejection and Pedri swatting him away as if he were a fly, a persistent buzzing thing that refuses to take the hint.
Today, Ferran doesn’t seem to have a human-prop in his arm, just him, hands shoved in his pockets and for a second Pedri simply wonders, even if he shouldn’t, knowing it’s a dangerous little door to leave cracked open.
“Your girlfriend already done with you?”
“Awn, I didn't know you’re keeping track of my relationships.” He fake-says, pressing a hand on his heart, his eyes bright with mischief. “She couldn’t compete against you, so I had to let her go.”
Pedri scoffs. A sharp sound meant to land unimpressed for Ferran to not flatter himself.
“But worry not.” Ferran leans in, voice dropping to feel like a secret. “I am completely single and a hundred percent serious about you.”
It is apparently true because their teammates talk about it, about how the man has explicitly said he is single and serious. Pedri doesn’t even blink his eyes at that.
“Don’t you think we look cute together?” Ferran asks after their training session. They look disgusting in sweat and flushed, hair plastered to their foreheads, their shirts clinging like second skins. They both can barely walk, legs heavy and burning, yet Ferran stands tall next to him, smiling brightly at him. They have a match the next morning, and the training grounds aren’t even theirs so they need to shower and leave for the hotel to rest.
But Ferran apparently has other priorities.
“I look like I want to commit murder anytime you stand next to me, Ferran.”
“See, feisty.” Ferran’s grin widens, delighted. “You be feisty and I’ll be nice and loving, right at your feet.”
“You’re on your knees more often than not. Hitting the ground after missing goals.” Pedri says it with a neutral note, and Ferran for once doesn't have anything witty to say.
“Not nice, Pedri.” Then he leaves, turning on his heel, shoulders a little stiffer than before the ghost of a pout tugging at his lips.
And Pedri feels bad.
It sits with him through dinner, through the team meeting, so later that night, he visits Ferran’s hotel room. Shy knocks on the older’s room door, three soft taps that he almost hopes go unheard.
But Ferran’s voice resonates from inside, muffled but warm. “Come in.”
He opens the door and Ferran looks genuinely surprised to see Pedri at his door, in his room. Which is ridiculous, they do come to each other’s room to play games, to drink or just to kill time between matches. But it is true that they don’t visit each other’s room alone, not like this.
Pedri closes the door behind him then walks inside, getting closer as Ferran who’s sitting with one knee up on the bed, back against the headboard, phone abandoned beside him.
“I—” Pedri starts and Ferran looks patient with him, no grin, no joke, just his eyes steady like he won’t rush him at all, and Pedri feels the blush creeping up his neck, hot and traitorous. “I came to apologize, about what I said earlier. It was a joke —a bad one. You’re our striker and I know how much you work for it and do your best all the time. I’m sorry.”
Ferran blinks at him, and the silence stretches just long enough for Pedri to consider bolting, before he opens his mouth.
“You’re forgiven.” He says simply, and Pedri breathes a deep and quiet exhale, as if a weight has been lifted from his chest. But then Ferran tilts his head and something flickers behind his eyes. “On one condition.”
“What?”
“I get a hug.”
“Ferran for fuck’s sake.”
Ferran shrugs. like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I run on love and affection, your apology has to be sincere and you hurt me quite badly.”
Ferran did look down right after his words, so Pedri bites his lip, a small unconscious thing, before approaching him, putting one knee on the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, and he stretches his arms to hug Ferran who’s trying to hide his smile as he melts into the hug. Ferran hugs Pedri back, tightly, arms wrapped around him in desperation.
Pedri finds himself putting his head in the crook of Ferran’s neck.
“I’m sorry.” He apologizes again, words muffled against skin.
It doesn’t change much in their dynamics. Ferran is still insufferable, still reaching for him with those wandering hands, but Pedri softens inside, his eye rolls no longer looking too serious, they’re slower now, almost fond, the kind of exasperation that comes with a smile threatening to break at the edges.
Then Ferran starts talking about them dating.
“Did you know I have dogs?” Ferran asks casually one day mid-training, sweat glistening at his temples.
“They’re all over your instagram.”
“Oh Pedri you’re stalking my instagram now?” Ferran’s grin is insufferable, wide and victorious. “You should probably follow me.”
“Why should I?”
“I mean, once we start dating you’ll appear in it more often than not.” He says like it’s inevitable, like there is no version of the future where it doesn’t happen.
“Remind me, Ferran, why would I ever date you?” Pedri lazily turns to look at him, looking far too unimpressed, as he throws him the ball back. It lands on Ferran’s chest, then he catches it with both hands.
“Easy.” Ferran doesn’t miss a beat, hugging the ball to his chest, cuddling it. “I’m charming and I like you so much —I bet nobody else liked you that much.”
Pedri rolls his eyes. But this time, the corner of his mouth twitches, just enough.
Pedri end up following him and Ferran follows him back immediately —so fast it’s almost embarrassing, like he’s been waiting.
“Blooming love.” Gavi teases him once he sees Ferran posting them, no matter how fakely annoyed Pedri looks in the picture, jaw clenched, eyes mid-roll, caught in the frame like he’s actively trying to escape it.
“We took one picture. One. He put it everywhere.” Pedri puts his head between his hands, fingers pressing into his temples like he can massage the situation away.
“At least you know he’s serious about you.” Gavi laughs, completely unbothered, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Pedri!” Ferran calls as he jogs towards them, hair bouncing with every step.
“I’ll leave you lovebirds.” Gavi whispers, already backing away with a knowing smirk, disappearing towards the far end of the pitch.
“Did you see our picture?”
“Yes Ferran, you only posted it a thousand times.” Pedri says sarcastically, arms crossed, weight shifting onto one hip.
“And you didn’t repost it, or comment…” Ferran pouts, actually pouts, bottom lips pushed out, brows drawn together. “Come on, how is it going to look to the people, we’re teammates.”
Ferran is making sense. Annoyingly, frustratingly making sense, but Pedri couldnt help but feel like he is walking straight into the lion’s den, one careful step at time.
“Fine.” He says, picking up his phone, commenting on the post something short and safe, and reposting the story. “Good now?”
“Well, it’s a bit cold but—” Pedri glares at him. “I’m joking.”
The days blend into each other —training, matches, travel, the endless rotation of hotel rooms and stadium lights— and Pedri grows accustomed to Ferran’s antics. The winks, the wandering hands, the way he always seems to find him in a crowd, that it becomes background noise.
Then someone throws Pedri on the pitch.
It happens fast, a hard shove mid-sprint and Pedri goes down, grass and dirt scraping against his palms, breath knocked clean from his lungs. He’s fine, barely even winded, already pushing himself up, but Ferran who’s on the other side of the pitch doesn’t wait to find out.
He’s there in seconds, shoving the player who hit him, chest-to-chest, hands fisted in the guy’s collar, ready to fight.
The other guys are divided, some rushing to check on Pedri, hands on his shoulders, asking if he’s okay; others pulling Ferran back, arms hooked around his waist, voices urgent and overlapping, calling for the referee and asking for a yellow card.
Pedri isnt even hurt, not really, just a scrape on his palm and a dull ache on his hip but Ferran is going feral, eyes wild and chest heaving like he’s the one who got thrown.
Pedri has to calm him down himself.
“Calm down,” He says, fingers wrapping around Ferran’s arm, pulling him back. “You’ll get a yellow card yourself.”
There are barely 7 more minutes of play left anyway.
Then they hear the player shout. “Yeah go listen to your little boyfriend.”
The words cut through the noise and Pedri feels them land somewhere low in his gut, hot and sharp.
“Bold words coming from someone who was just about to get his ass handled for touching said-boyfriend moments ago.” Pedri refutes, voice cold as stone, his gaze fixed on the man with a calm that’s almost frightening.
He doesn't realize what he said, not until he feels Ferran’s lips press against his head, then Ferran is pulling him away, an arm around his shoulders, while still cursing the man over his shoulder, voice venomous.
Ferran annoyingly sits next to him on the way to the hotel, as the quiet chatter of tired teammates fills the space. Pedri wants to pretend he’s sleeping, head against the window, eyes shut, and Ferran doesn’t buy it for a second.
“You called me your boyfriend.” He says, smiling widely, his voice low enough that only Pedri can hear.
“I didn’t, that stupid number four did.” Pedri answers, eyes still closed.
“But you didn’t refute. So we’re boyfriends now.” He playfully hits Pedri’s shoulder with his own, his grin audible and bright.
“God, let me rest.” Pedri begs, the words coming out more tired than annoyed and Ferran doesn’t push. Instead he puts his arm around him, embracing him.
“Lay on me.” Ferran whispers and Pedri doesn't think for once. He just rests his head on Ferran’s shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft against his cheek, until they reach the hotel.
Ferran wakes him up gently with a soft shake and murmured words, carrying his bag for him and walking him till all the way to the door of his room.
Pedri feels too sleepy, his eyes blurry, and limb heavy, so when Ferran hands him his bag and opens his arm in a quiet invitation, Pedri doesn’t hesitate. He just hugs him, steps in close and wraps his arms around him, cheek pressed to his shoulder.
“Good night, Pepi.”
Pedri hates the new nickname. It sounds like something you’d call a toddler, a pet, a small thing that needs protecting. He bans the guys from using it, sharp looks, a threat or two tossed around the locker room, they laugh but they listen.
But Ferran… Ferran is an unmovable object, a wall of warmth and stubbornness refusing to bend, always calling him Pepi, be it in passing, in conversation and Pepi stops correcting him.
Then comes a match where Barcelona loses. Not just loses, but full on collapses.
No Ferran attempt to score actually succeeds; shot after shot, the ball sails wide, hits the post, finds the goalkeeper’s gloves, and the whole team overall plays as if they’ve never seen a ball.
They have a flight back tomorrow morning, the kind of travel that makes defeat sit even heavier in the bones.
After the whistle, Ferran doesn’t move. He lies on the grass, flat on his back, his palms pressed over his eyes like he can block out the stadium light, the scoreboard, the sound of the other team celebrating somewhere in the distance. Until Pedri approaches.
“It’s not your fault.” He hears him say, voice soft and certain.
And then Ferran throws himself at him, arms wrapping tight, face buried in Pedri’s shoulder, weight crashing into him with a desperation that catches him off guard and thank god Pedri’s on his knees, otherwise he would’ve fallen.
“I couldn’t score.” Ferran’s voice muffled against him, small in a way Pedri has never heard before, sounding like someone hurting.
“Neither could any of us. We all played shit today.” Pedri’s hands move on Ferran’s back, soothing him, his palm flat against the damp fabric of his jersey.
“Even you?” Ferran pushes himself back to look at Pedri, eyes searching.
And Pedri realizes this man has always had mesmerizing eyes, deep and impossibly warm. How has he never noticed before?
“Especially me.” He chuckles.
Ferran throws his head back, sighing, looking at the sky. “They’ll eat me alive on social media.”
“You shouldn’t check what they say about you.”
“I can’t not use my phone.” He looks back at Pedri like he might have an answer.
“I’ll hide it from you.”
“But I need entertainment or I'll die.” He whines, sounding dramatic, a flicker of his usual self creeping in.
“Then I’ll just monitor your phone use.”
“You’ll have to stay in my room then.” Ferran’s eyebrows lift in challenge.
“I will if I have to.” Pedri says, not giving up, because he knows Ferran gets too into his head anytime there is negative noise about him. It seeps in, poisoning everything, affecting his play, his confidence and mental health.
Ferran only smiles back at him.
Then Pedri pulls Ferran up, his hands gripping his, hauling him to his feet, and Ferran hugs him again, quick and tight, before they start moving, leaving the pitch behind.
“This was all just a scheme to get me in your room, isn't it?”
“Youre so smart, pepi.”
Pedri stands by his words. He takes his luggage, rolling it behind him down the quiet hotel corridor and stands in front of Ferran’s room, knocking softly. The door opens immediately to a wide smiling Ferran, who pulls him in close into a hug.
The man literally lives on affection and physical touch.
Pedri stands frozen, body stiff, but doesn’t pull away.
“I was waiting for you.” Ferran says, holding his hand with one hand —fingers lacing together like it’s nothing— and pulling his suitcase with the other, guiding him inside the room. “I thought you’d chicken.”
“I don’t chicken.” Pedri refutes, chin lifting.
“You’re weird when it comes to me.” Ferran simply says as he puts the suitcase in the corner, turning his back to Pedri although he’s still holding his hand.
“You’re weird when it comes to me.” Pedri emphasizes the first word, pulling his hand back. He crosses his arms over his chest, childishly tucking his hands away, and looks to the side, his eyes fixed on some unimportant spot on the wall.
“Because I like you.” Ferran answers easily, turning to look at him with a smile, with no hesitation. For him, it’s just the truth, laid bare between them.
Pedri, flustered with the answer, tends his hand, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck and settling in his cheeks. “Phone.”
Ferran immediately hands it in Pedri’s palm, as if receiving an order. “Now you have to entertain me.”
“Aren’t you tired? We just played a match.” Pedri pockets the phone, eyebrows lifting.
“I have to entertain myself otherwise the voices get too loud.” The words land differently than Ferran probably intended, but Pedri hears it, because he knew, of course he did.
Ferran would sometimes get too into his head that it would become apparent to anyone paying attention, yet he never admitted it out loud. Always deflected and made it someone else’s joke to tell.
Few minutes later, Pedri doesn’t know what exactly prompted them to be on the bed, together. Especially with him lying on Ferran’s arm, head tucked into the space between his shoulder and naked torso, skin warm against his cheek, as Ferran’s other arm lays lazily on his waist, heavy and grounding, with his fingers splayed like he’s holding something precious.
They’re both looking at Pedri’s phone, the screen casting a pale glow across their faces.
Pedri doesn’t know how they got here, he doesn’t remember the transition, from sitting to lying down, to this. He should move, say something, probably not be noticing how warm Ferran’s skin is.
“Do you have to be naked?” He finds himself asking.
“It’s more comfortable like this.” He says, shrugging one shoulder before looking down again, scrolling through Pedri’s feed with curiosity.
“So much for privacy.” Pedri mumbles, watching his own screen like it’s a betrayal.
“You have my phone, it’s only fair you entertain me.”
Pedri huffs but doesn’t make any try to move, Ferran nuzzles his head affectionately, nose brushing against Pedri’s hair.
“We’ve been sitting like this with you looking at your odd cats and cleaning carpets for 20 minutes. You can’t get shy on me now.”
“Who’s shy?” Pedri tries to muster some authority or maybe dignity, anything that doesn’t sound like a man currently melting into another man’s chest.
“So you’re not bothered?” Ferran looks at him with a smirk, eyebrows raised and Pedri feels like he just sold his soul to the devil, signed on the dotted line, no refunds.
“Nope.”
Ferran pulls him even closer, cuddling him properly now, arm tightening around his west; pulling Pedri flush against him, chin resting atop of his head. And Pedri can’t even say anything about it, he put himself in this situation, walked right into it.
“This is the best day of my life.” Ferran says happily, voice warm and content like a cat stretched in sunbeam.
Pedri, whose head is about to explode from being so red, simply bites his lip, looking into the void. The void, unsurprisingly, offers him no help.
The next morning, Pedri finds out he cannot completely move, although he literally slept in Ferran’s arms, having one of the best sleeps of his life.
The second he opens his eyes he tries to get out of the embrace that tightens immediately when he moves. An arm hooked around his waist, pulling him back, keeping him there.
“Ferran!” He calls softly. He should be louder, more aggressive even —shove him off—, but he doesn't have the heart to. Not when Ferran is sleeping so peacefully, lips parted, breath slow, looking far too calm for the tornado he’s always been.
“Ferran!” He calls again, a little firmer. “Come on, we have to go.”
“Five more minutes, baby.” The pet name comes out so easily, slurred and sleepy, that Pedri only registered Ferran tucked his head under his, kissing his temple even in his slumber. It takes a few minutes for the shock to wear off, replaying the word over and over in his head.
When the shock is over, he finally pushes him using his feet, making him growl a protesting sound, and turn on his back as Pedri hops off the bed.
“Why so aggressive so early in the morning.”
“We have a flight, and I’m not letting you make me miss it. So you, mister, need to leave the bed immediately so we can get our asses going before they leave us stranded here.”
“I’m not leaving the bed without a morning kiss.” The words hang in the air like a challenge and Ferran doesn’t move, just lies there.
“God, you’re so annoying. Fine, here’s your morning kiss.” Pedri says dramatically, throwing his hands in the air like a man pushed to his absolute limit, before moving back to the bed as Ferran looks up at him with sparkly eyes, wide and expectant. “Here.”
He pecks his hair, not even his head. Just the messy strands on top, a brush of lips so quick it barely registers as a whisper of contact.
Ferran feels cheated. “What? No, this is false advertisement. What kind of kiss is that?” He asks as he rolls back on bed like the drama queen he is, one arm thrown on his forehead in mock devastation, the other clutching his chest as if Pedri physically wounded him.
“i’m leaving you here.” Pedri seriously says, before turning and disappearing the bathroom.
“No, my love. I can’t live without you.” Ferran sings after him, loud and theatrical, but only the sound of the shower hits back.
Pedri walks in —hair still damp, fresh clothes clinging to his skin— and it’s Ferran’s turn to take a shower.
“Don’t leave without me.” He says and it breaks Pedri’s resolve of leaving immediately.
He sits on the bed instead, in his fresh clothes, waiting for Ferran who emerges with a towel slung low, and finally starts picking up his clothes, pulling them on.
“Are we done now?” Pedri exasperatedly says.
“All done, baby.” Ferran grins, he then holds both his suitcase and Pedri’s, one in each hand, his muscles flexing with the effort, before gesturing to the door with his chin. “After you.”
Pedri huffs but walks to the door.
Of course Ferran sits right next to him on the way to the airport, and on the plane. He’s all chirpy and annoying, talking his ear off about the hotel breakfast, the dog he really wants to adopt…
Somewhere between the takeoff and the never-ending stories he has to hear, Pedri doesn’t realize he’s also holding Ferran’s hand, their fingers laced together on the armrest.
But all in all, he discovers that he really doesn’t mind.
They somehow become a pair, with Ferran sticking to Pedri everywhere. Looking for Pedri? Find Ferran first —he’ll be there hovering, orbiting in his gravity. Need Ferran? Find Pedri and he’s right next to him. It’s the new norm, them together.
Pedri finding himself waiting for Ferran before getting on the bus, rooming together on away trips, one bag beside the other, toothbrushes sharing the same hotel bathroom, waiting for the other to meet the guys because leaving without him feels wrong.
Pedri discovers that Ferran lives nearby, just a few streets over, so he starts driving him to and from practice. And Ferran enjoys the passenger seat, hijacking his playlist within the first five minutes.
The guys joke about it, whistles and knowing looks, the occasional “where is your boyfriend” thrown Pedri’s way, but Pedri never lets them do so in front of Ferran, shutting it down with a warning look. Because Ferran was already annoying as it is and he’d become unbearable.
“I think...” Ferran starts smugly, leaning his full weight on Pedri as they’re both standing after practice —chin hooked over his shoulder, chest pressed to his back with both arms loosely draped around him like Pedri is furniture he decided to claim. “We’ll get married.”
He gets no answer as Pedri acts as if he cannot hear him, staring straight ahead, his face perfectly blank.
“I’ll propose, getting on one knee and all.” Ferran continues, his voice dripping with smug certainty.
“Well,” Pedri says, turning to look at him. “I reject you. Now and in the future.”
Ferran falls dramatically with his hands on his heart, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”
A few feet away, Eric leans toward Gavi, voice dropped to a whisper. “I think he’s serious.”
“He’s just joking.” The younger says, shrugging with the weariness of someone who’s seen it a hundred times.
“Nah.” Fermin who’s walking behind them adds.
The marriage thing happens again when they’re invited to their teammate’s wedding weeks later, sitting next to each other, each in a dark suit and slightly loosened tie. Their photos were already taken and they congratulated the couple upon their arrival, together of course.
Suddenly Ferran has his arm around Pedri’s shoulders, pulling him in naturally like he always does, until Pedri has to look up at him.
“Us next.” He says, tilting his head towards the newlyweds who were still wrapped in each other, kissing.
Pedri rolls his eyes at him, but his eyes go wide when Ferran pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his cheek.
“What are you doing?” He whines, heat flooding his face.
“Marking territory.”
Pedri doesn’t realize how much things have changed, how close they are now from how they were at first —two strangers circling each other, one chasing while the other retreating. Now, Ferran’s annoying antics are just fun quirks to him. The way he drapes himself over Pedri’s back mid-conversation, the way he steals food off his plate without asking, how he calls him Pepi all the time, now none of it makes Pedri’s eye twitch.
He lets Ferran pick him up like a rag doll mid-training and doesn’t complain anymore, instead he laughs fully expecting it. He finds himself running to Ferran, getting to him first after a goal, throwing himself at him in happiness, even in training. His legs thrown around Ferran’s waist, arms looped around his neck and Ferran holds him tight but easily, making sure he doesn't fall.
The neck kisses are a given, Ferran presses them whenever he gets close enough, then come the cheek kisses and the winks that never disappeared, but now Pedri expects them. Now he’s involved too.
“You’ve softened to him.” Raphinha says playfully to Pedri after he hopped off Ferran, laughter still bright on his lips from the celebration to his winning goal in training. The words land somewhere between teasing and knowing.
Thank God Ferran went the other way and didn't hear it, if he heard how apparently Pedri had softened to him, he’d dine out of it for months.
“He’s impossible not to like.” Pedri says exasperatedly, running a hand through his damp hair.
“Just like?” Raphinha pushes, eyebrow lifting higher as his voice dips with implication.
“Mind your business. Your puppy is getting sad you’re breathing away from him.” Pedri says, mentioning elsewhere with his chin.
Raphinha turns to look at where he mentioned, seeing Fermin, kicking at a loose patch of grass, looking a little pathetic.
“Fuck.” He mutters, then he’s gone jogging across the pitch calling Fermin’s name, leaving Pedri laughing there.
Ferran doesn’t stop talking about a wedding, that it becomes a constant. What they should do, who they should call, where they should have it. He debates venues with himself, argues about color schemes and wonders aloud whether Gavi would bring his newest boyfriend or keep him hidden. And while Pedri is used to simply humming at him, this time he turns to look at him as they’re lying on the bed.
“Shouldn’t we be… i don’t know…dating first? Before thinking about marriage?” He says playfully.
“What do you mean?” Ferran looks at him with furrowed eyebrows, genuinely confused. “I thought we’re already dating.”
“Whatever you say, man.” Pedri smiles fondly and turns back to lie the way he was before.
“No!” Ferran whines, rolling onto his side to face him, propping himself on one elbow. “We sleep on the same bed, we’re together everywhere, I call you babe and you’re the only person who tolerates me and genuinely likes me.”
It makes Pedri stop as something twists in his chest. He turns to Ferran again, this time holding his face between his hands, palms warm.
“I don’t need to tolerate you. You’re not doing anything.” Pedri says, voice quiet but firm. “And Ferran, everybody likes you, it’s impossible not to.”
“See, you’re trying to make me feel better even though I know the truth.”
“The truth is that I know better.” Pedri’s thumbs don’t stop tracing slow arcs across his skin. “You’re good looking and very likable, you’re fun to be with, you’re funny. And if the world doesn’t then I’ll love you enough for all of us. But people like you, Ferri.”
It’s new, calling him Ferri, but it slips out before he can stop it and Pedri barely realizes he’s talking about love now. He can’t exactly backtrack, not with the huge smile spreading across Ferran’s face, the confidence finally shining back in his eyes.
“I mean, you can’t say I'm tolerating you. Even though sometimes you’re silly and a bit annoying —but not bad annoying. Good annoying.”
“Good annoying?” Ferran repeats, biting his lip, trying to stop the smile from spreading even further.
“Yeah.” Pedri gulps, heart hammering. “Definitely.”
Then Ferran pulls him to his chest, crushing him in a hug that knocks the breath from his lungs with his big arms, hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.
“You can’t say all that and believe we’re not dating.” Ferran’s voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against Pedri’s cheek. He pushes his head back for a second —just enough to look at him, eyes bright and serious— before leaning down and pecking the tip of Pedri’s nose, soft and quick. “We’re dating. You can’t be with someone else, I’ll die.”
He says it looking at Pedri’s eyes, laying his heart out.
And Pedri chuckles as he pushes himself back into the embrace and into the arms holding him like the most precious thing in the world. “Fine.”
Ferran barely steps a foot back in his own house, pretty much moving in with his dogs into Pedri’s space like he’s always belonged there. The dogs are everywhere, shedding on the couch knocking things over with their tails.
It makes Pedri complain about everything. The tv staying on all night, some forgotten show murmuring in the dark as Ferran sleeps accidentally on the couch at night, the dogs’ mess not being tidied up, the bed that suddenly gets wrinkled right after Pedri makes it.
And Ferran stands there with a big unbothered smile on his face, receiving every word of Pedri’s lecture like a compliment. It pisses Pedri off, especially because Ferran looks so good who looks so good in the morning while Pedri can barely open his eyes like a functioning human being.
“Why are you smiling? I’m telling you to stop making a mess everywhere.” He scolds, arms crossed .
“It’s just funny how I unlocked the full Pedri experience the moment we clarified we’re dating.” He shrugs, leaning on the room’s door frame.
Pedri goes red, heat crawling from his neck to his cheeks. It was embarrassingly true that Pedri immediately let go of what's left of his built up walls, but he wouldn't want to confess that.
“That has nothing to do with this.” He huffs, looking away.
Ferran walks up to him, and wraps his arms around him. “I’m sorry, I promise I'll do better. You won’t complain ever again.” He kisses his temple.
And what can Pedri say to that, other than resign? He melts into it, grumbling under his breath, but his hands come up to rest on Ferran’s back, knowing fully well that he’s lost in front of him.
What changes too is how territorial Pedri becomes. No hug has to go over a few seconds—polite and back to where the person came from. Only bro hugs, no need for so much contact. He knows Ferran thrives in affection and attention, but that’s Pedri’s affection and attention now. And Dod forbid someone else answers Ferran’s “Baby!”call.
“He’s not talking to you.” Pedri says flatly to Llorente who made the mistake of turning his head, answering Ferran during one of their international break training sessions.
Pedri jogs past him towards Ferran who expects him with wide arms open, not even a glance to the other Spaniard who’s blinking at them in disbelief.
The wedding, as Ferran kept manifesting, happens a year later.
By the time they send the invitation, everybody and their mothers know of the relationship. It hasn’t been a secret for a long time. Not since Pedri stopped correcting people when they called Ferran his boyfriend.
Even the club’s fans know, they’ve known for months, piercing it together from interviews, and the way Pedri’s face softens when Ferran’s name comes up. The internet had a field day when the engagement broke. Ferran had scrolled through all the think pieces, threads and edits set to love songs, grinning like a man who’d won the lottery, while Pedri buried his face in a pillow and groaned.
Now Ferran has a suit hanging in the closet, still in its garment bag and Pedri has a ring on his finger that he still catches himself staring at sometimes.
A little over a year ago, he was rolling his eyes at every wink, swatting hands away and refusing to enable games. Now he’s marrying the playboy. And ridiculously, it’s the best decision he’s ever made.
Not one person thinks of missing the wedding, it just couldn’t happen.
The venue is filled to the brim with teammates past and present, coaches, staff, family and friends who’ve watched them circle each other for years. Nobody would dare to miss it.
Ferran begs Pedri to invite Llorente. Actually begs, with his hands clasped together, eyes wide and pleasing, explaining how he is his friend and just has to come.
“If he gets close to you, I’m smacking him with a wine bottle.” Pedri says, his voice flat.
“Deal.” Ferran agrees instantly.
Pedri ends up being the one to invite him, or threaten him, semantics. Llorente doesn’t get the pretty invitation everybody else gets, no cream envelope, no gold wax seal, just a single message.
Llorente responds with a string of laughing emojis and one word. Terrifying.
Mid wedding —their wedding— Ferran gets up, a glass of champagne in his hand, the mic in the other, chairs scraping back against the floor as he stands. And Pedri already shakes his head, resigned, knowing exactly what’s coming and making peace with it.
“Today, we are gathered for such a beautiful day.” Ferran starts, his voice ringing through the speakers, warm and theatrical. “The best day of my life.” He shouts and everybody laughs.
He then turns dramatically to look at Pedri, a full pivot. And Pedri, sitting there in his suit, looks so fond of him.
“We are celebrating during such a day, because I did not give up. The first time i looked at him, i knew he was the love of my life, the man of my dreams, not naughty dreams, although some of them—”
“Ferran!” Pedri scolds, though his cheeks are pink and his mouth is twitching.
“I’ll behave, baby. Promise.” He says cheeply, batting his lashes before turning back to the chuckling guests. “He totally hated me.”
“You were such a player” Pedri can’t help but comment, loud enough for everybody to catch it.
“I wasn’t!” Ferran dramatically protests, free hand flying to his chest.
Pedri rolls his eyes. They’re together now, nothing else matters. “You always had a man or a woman in your arm.”
“That’s because you’d only look at me if I had someone with me.” Ferran explains, turning to the guests for back up.
“I can witness that.” Eric calls from somewhere in the crowd.
“Same.”
Gavi who’s starting to put his hand up in confirmation, sees Pedri glaring at him and slowly puts it down. Wiser men have tried, wiser men have failed.
“But anyways.” Ferran continues, lifting his glass high. “I was persistent, I believed in our love, and I won.” He gloats, grinning wide.
“Yes, best friend!” Llorente screams from the back of the venue, voice cutting through the laughter.
Eric, the actual best friend, turns to glare at him as Pedri takes a deep breath, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling.
Pedri got married to Ferran, his overgrown puppy energy, his inability to sit still or shut up or stop touching, his smile that could light up a stadium and his heart that’s too big for his chest.
In all this, Ferran is just happy to be there. And Pedri is happy to let him.